Bleeding Heart of the Dragon
by K. Ashley
Summary: "Sometimes it's darkest just before dawn..."


The piercing whine of sirens drew closer as Draco ducked into the deep shadows of an alleyway. The nearby walls echoed the many footfalls that scurried away in all directions, and the maniacal laughter that accompanied them. Draco pressed his back against the cold brick and closed his eyes. The cool night air clung to the sweat on his face as though trying to smother him. As the sirens grew louder, his accomplices' voices faded into the distance.

He was alone, now. Utterly alone, in more ways than one. He knew that his crew would be gathering at the pub a few blocks away, to celebrate the completion of their latest assignment. They would toss back several bottles of Blitze's Burn, a very fine wizard brand of whiskey. They would laugh and recount the events of the evening, and snicker over the terror they had wrought. They would begin to wonder where he was. 

Draco could hear the Muggle paramedics scramble to revive the several corpses that were strewn horrifically about the sidewalk. He listened intently to their panicked voices. Then the commotion began to quiet. They soon realized that the victims were beyond help. They were dead. All dead.

A sudden constriction clenched Draco's chest and made its icy way across his entire body. This had been happening more and more lately. There was a time when he could kill and then go and celebrate just like the others. Heck, he used to lead the Muggle attacks with a fierce grin and triumphant gait. But of late, the joy was seeping out of his work. 

He could distinctly hear the grunts of the paramedics as they lifted the dead weight of the victims into the ambulance. The doors slammed shut. The engine started. The ambulance drove away, this time without sirens. Draco slowly exhaled, realizing that he had scarcely breathed during the past ten minutes. His eyes still closed, he tucked his wand into his robes.

"I'm going soft," he muttered to himself, his breath rising in wisps of white. He opened his eyes and squared his shoulders, then stalked his way toward the pub.

*~*~*~*

The halls of Hogwarts were more frigid than ever now that winter was swiftly approaching. Even the ghosts had bundled up in various arrays of translucent cloaks and scarves, and had taken to floating up near the ceiling where any heat would have gathered. Draco trudged down a particularly narrow corridor, his thick winter cloak pulled tight about his shoulders, which were hunched in tension.

His seventh and final year at Hogwarts was moving along slowly, and Draco had grown tired of the monotony of his day-to-day routine of classes, homework, and grueling Quidditch practice. He was captain of the Slytherin team now, and the full responsibility for the team's performance rested on his weary head. 

It was practice that he headed to now, making his way from Slytherin's hidden house out to the Quidditch pitch. He was running late. He'd fallen into a fitful sleep over his Advanced Alchemy homework, and suffered a horrific nightmare that left him even more tired than he'd been before the nap. This nightmare was becoming more and more frequent, and more gruesome. He shuddered as a flash of red eyes and vision of a clawed hand grasping an evilly twisted wand forced its way across his mind. Blinking hard, Draco shook his head and tried to think of anything but the dream.

After a withering stalk across the frosty grounds, Draco entered the Slytherin locker room to find his team waiting impatiently. Several looks of irritation were shot in his direction as he opened his own locker, and he did his best to ignore them. Only his faithful friends, Crabbe and Goyle, looked on him with concern. After all, they were the only others on the team that were involved in the same business as Draco. They knew his exhaustion. They had seen him enter the pub the night before with less than an enthusiastic air.

"All right," Draco said shortly, "out on the field." The team grabbed their brooms and trudged out into the cold, and began flying their routine laps around the empty stands. Draco then called them into a midair huddle to discuss a particular play with which they were having some difficulty.

"I want you to focus on this play," he said over the howling of the wind. His blonde hair whipped his forehead relentlessly, and he had to squint against the gales. "Pansy, you start at the far end of the field. Goyle, Crabbe, you two take position beneath her and be ready for the Bludgers. Harbors and Chase, take the flanks at center field. I'll Keep the opposing goal, and Millicent, you'll be positioned near me. 

"The Quaffle starts with Pansy. Pansy, you take it up to Chase, who then will run the zigzag to Harbors. Harbors, get it to Millicent, and Bullstrode, you have to get it past me. All clear?"

The team all nodded seriously and took position. Draco landed long enough to release the Bludgers and toss the Quaffle to Pansy, then raced down to the goal posts and prepared to block Millicent. The play went over well enough, and they ran it through over and over, changing positions every now and then, but Draco always remaining at the goal. He would have been an excellent Keeper if he were not an even better Seeker. When practice was over, and the rest of the team hurried to the locker room to warm up, Draco remained in the air, flying laps around the stadium.

Flying must have been the one thing he still enjoyed. He closed his eyes and leaned forward over the sleek handle of his top of the line _Phoenix Flyer 900_, picking up speed and letting the freezing wind redden his face. For a while, he was able to forget about school and work. Especially work. He needed to be able to forget about work every now and then in order to maintain some degree of sanity.

When he heard the bells ringing up at the castle, signaling curfew, Draco landed with a heavy heart and made his weary way inside. As he walked down the near-empty halls, Draco's chest began to clench in the way that was becoming so familiar. He didn't want to be in the Slytherin common room tonight, listening to his "friends" sniggering about the gruesome things they'd done the night before. Even worse would be the enthusiastic musings about the assignment that was to take place in only two days' time. More murder at the hands of mere kids. Draco shuddered and without thinking, ducked into a nearby empty classroom and huddled himself into the dark, cool corner. 

He wasn't sure how long he'd been in there when low voices just outside the classroom shook him out of his misery. He sat up straight and listened, muscles tense.

"It's coming closer," said a strained voice. "Soon the war will really be on."

"And it'll be about damn time, too," answered another. "I don't know why Lord Voldemort has been taking such a long time to prepare. We've got plenty of willing warriors."

"Don't question Lord Voldemort's motives! He knows what he's doing."

"Look, all I'm saying is that with all these attacks we've been doing, everyone's on high alert. Muggle authorities are swarming, and the Ministry has been sniffing around with more vigor than I've seen in a while."

"Promise you won't squeal if I let you in on a bit of top secret information?" the first voice said eagerly. There was a very pregnant pause in which Draco guessed the second party must've nodded. "Well," the first went on, "Voldemort's got bigger plans than the small attacks we've done. He's supposed to be sending for a select few to help him implement the biggest job yet…"

"Yes? Go on! What is it?"

Draco's pricked ears were rudely dismayed to hear a third and angry voice interrupt the intriguing information that was about to be passed. "Jordan, Keever, what are you doing wandering around the corridors after curfew?"

"Sorry, Professor McGonagall," mumbled the first voice.

"We were just on our way to the dormitory," lied the second.

"Well then, get on your way, both of you," McGonagall answered sharply. "Professor Snape will hear about this in the morning, now go on!"

Draco listened as three pairs of footsteps marched away, two of them in the direction of the Slytherin common room. Slouching back against the wall, Draco heaved a great sigh and shook his head against the darkness. He wondered vaguely what huge attack Voldemort was planning at the moment. And he wondered with a shudder just how long it would be before he, Draco Malfoy, admirable son of the highly admired Lucius, would be assigned to lead the horrible brigade.


End file.
